Family Affairs Page 6

  “Feck off,” she said lightly, clearly delighted with her use of the vernacular, and kissed him softly on the cheek. “Goodnight.” She ran up to her room.

  Dev remained on the stairs. Immobile. The scent of her everywhere. Spicy. Exotic. Unique. Shit.

  The lodge was deserted when Frankie rose bright and early the next morning. A note was left on the kitchen table saying not to expect Dev back till dinner. Unaccountably miffed, she went about preparing her habitual breakfast of coffee, fruit and muesli.

  While the coffee was brewing Frankie took the bull by the horns and went out to her car where, locked away in the boot – Ha! Look at that, I’m calling it a boot – I really am settling in – was her trusty laptop and charger. It hadn’t been switched on for weeks. Not since shortly after Stephen had been killed and it had been returned from evidence by the police. It took a lot of courage for her to bring it into the house, as she knew once it was in plain sight she’d be tempted to use it. Check her emails.

  Maybe.

  She’d only used the landline to contact her agent and a few particular friends back in the States and her mobile for the Fitzgeralds. She’d avoided logging on to the internet since being in Ireland. Now, with a new direction firmly planted in her mind, Frankie knew it was time to deal.

  She placed the laptop on the table and stared at it while she ate her cereal and fruit. Maybe it was just as well Dev wasn’t here – he’d probably just laugh at her inability to take the Apple Mac out of its case. He’d just open it up and slam it down, without any fuss. But then he didn’t fear what could be inside like she did.

  Once the dishes were stacked in the dishwasher and the bathroom was scrubbed, the den vacuumed, the kitchen floor mopped and the chicken marinating for later, Frankie felt she deserved another pot of coffee.

  The laptop stared back at her.

  The garden definitely needed weeding.

  Frankie headed outside, grabbing the trowel and small fork from the cupboard near the back door. The weeds were in some serious need of attack.

  Good. Lunchtime went by unnoticed as the garden area around the patio came to life and the blooms hidden by a season of weeds emerged triumphantly. It was immensely satisfying to see instant results for decent honest labour. Did having a box-office hit feel this good? Frankie didn’t think so. Well, okay, maybe.

  Hunger finally drove her back inside and it took supreme effort on her part not to head to town to have some food, or walk around, or go for a pint, or shop, or look in the galleries or the lovely craft shops. Anything but face the elephant in the kitchen. She put together a simple salad with yogurt and fruit, and broke open a bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc that was chilling in the fridge.

  When Dev got in that evening about 7 p.m. there was a half a bottle of white wine in the fridge and the table outside was set, with a jar of wild flowers adorning the centre. Dinner was ready and Frankie changed from her gardening gear into long, loose linen shorts and a string top in a lovely shade of rose pink. She must know that that particular shade of dusty rose was magic against her now lightly tanned skin and dark hair. She’d even wiped a hint of rose gloss across her lips.

  Fuck. Dev took one look at her and groaned inwardly. He excused himself and headed up for what was to have been a long, hot shower but now definitely needed to be on the cold side. Towelling himself off a few minutes later, he pulled on khaki shorts and an ancient T-shirt with his college logo well and truly faded. He studied his reflection in the misted-over mirror and hoped he was the only one who saw the quiet desperation lurking behind his intense blue eyes. Taking a deep breath, he went downstairs and opted for a shot of whiskey instead of the proffered beer.

  “Had a tough day?” Frankie enquired as she poured him a glass.

  “Why do you ask?” Dev took a quick swallow and, putting the glass down, set about carrying out the food.

  “You seem a bit out of sorts, that’s all.” Frankie tucked the salad bowl under her arm and managed the bread basket with her free hand.

  “And what makes you think you know so well what my mood should be?” Dev snapped as he headed back into the kitchen. He downed the whiskey and poured another before striding back out to the patio.

  “Jeez. Lighten up! No need to bite my head off.”

  Dev flung himself into the chair and stared out angrily towards the horizon.

  Frankie dished up the food in silence and started eating, tearing apart the baguette and drizzling it with some Italian olive oil. The chicken was succulent and tender, with overtones of mustard and honey and a touch of ginger. The salad was heaped with different varieties of leaves and thinly sliced raw vegetables, tossed in an authentic Italian dressing, the recipe learned from her “godfather”, Enzo, years ago.

  She might as well have been eating sawdust.

  She glanced over at her “brother” and saw him close his eyes as he dragged a hand over his scratchy jaw.

  Perhaps he sensed her gaze, because he turned fully towards her and offered her his trademark sheepish grin.

  “Sorry, Jones. I was out of line. I’m just . . .” He paused, lowering his eyes towards the plate in front of him. “Just not used to having someone around, in my space, you know?”

  Frankie laid down her fork. “Would you like me to leave? No, let me finish,” she said as Dev immediately uttered a protest. “I didn’t know you’d be here and truthfully, if I was the one on assignment or whatever, I’d probably want my own space, too. So, I can move to a hotel in town tomorrow, if that’ll help?”

  “Shit! No! Absolutely not! Christ. Look, I’ve been a bastard but, hey, that’s nothing new. No. I don’t want you to move to a hotel. This house is as much your home as mine, for God’s sake. And the parents want you here.”

  “But, you don’t.”

  “No. I mean yes. I mean of course I want you here.” He took a long drink from his glass, not quite meeting her eyes. “We just have to adjust. Okay, I have to adjust to having you or, well, anyone around.” God, he sounded like he was babbling. “Honestly, Jones. Stay. Please.” He shovelled a forkful of salad and chicken in his mouth in a blatant attempt to get himself to stop talking crap. He swallowed hastily. “Wow. This is really good. You,” he said, pointing his fork at Frankie, “are not going anywhere! I thought you said you couldn’t cook? This is really, really good.” He grinned cheekily at her. “Cook me dinner like this on a regular basis and you can stay as long as you like!”

  Frankie laughed, relieved the tension seemed to be over. “No dice, buddy. Like you just said, I can stay here as long as I want with or without you, and no, I have no intention of cooking for you on either a regular or an irregular basis!” She sipped her wine. Smiling. “Actually, this is as good as it gets as regards my cooking. Well, I can do a nice pasta dish with penne, tomatoes, basil and mozzarella, but that’s definitely it.”

  “So, what do you do for sustenance on a daily basis in your real life?”

  “Takeout and restaurants!”

  “Ah, lifestyles of the rich and famous. How the other half live.”

  Frankie swatted him with her napkin. “I heard you don’t do so badly yourself.” At his quirked eyebrow she chuckled. “Yes, your mom. She’s so proud of you. Well, you all, actually. She always manages to say something nice about all you guys. It’s pretty sweet.” She topped up her wine and sat back in her chair, her plate almost cleared.

  Dev reached across and mopped up her leftover dressing with a chunk of crusty bread.

  “Yeah, we’re pretty damn lucky with Mum. I don’t know how she raised us all to turn out halfway decent, but she mostly kept her cool when we were all acting the maggot and killing each other. How she got us through college is beyond me. Molly’s almost done now and that’s the last of it.”

  He began gathering up the tableware. “But she’s right. I do okay, moneywise. I’m on a retainer with the magazine, I teach several modules a year at the National College of Art and I also do private work.”

 
At her surprised look, he explained further, maybe a tad defensively. “I know I said I’d never do weddings and stuff when I was a kid, but the work I do is different. I really like the portrait work – it’s pretty cool to be able to catch the personality of your subject and let them see themselves in a unique way.”

  “I’ve seen some of your work in a few publications in the US. The one you did of the vice president’s wife was, well, unusual.”

  “Yeah, I got some stick for that but she liked it, so it’s now hanging at her private residence. The VP told me, on the quiet, that he liked it also; it was just some ultra-conservative right-wing rednecks who objected.”

  They walked into the kitchen, Dev carrying a laden tray and Frankie with the rest of the bits and pieces.

  “To be fair, Dev, Middle America just might not be ready for Madam VP sitting at her vanity unit in rather a revealing wrap. And, with a young photographer pretty obviously ogling her!”

  “Hey, I happen to like older women. They’re way sexier than those young ingénues or starlets. They have character and backbone and, I don’t know, charisma, I suppose.”

  “So, do you date older women as a rule?”

  “Way too personal, Jones!”

  “Aw, come on, be a sport. Tell me, do you have an age limit?”

  “Christ! No! I don’t have an age limit – whatever that even means. Jesus, Frankie, what do you take me for?”

  “Well, according to your sisters, you seem to have quite the harem and I was just wondering if one had to be a certain age to apply.”

  “Why, do you want an application?” Dev’s gaze was suddenly intense and Frankie’s cheeks flushed.

  She began stacking dishes, unable to meet his eyes.

  “Don’t be daft – you’re practically my brother,” she retorted. “And anyway, even if you weren’t, you’ve never been attracted to me. You used call me all manner of names and constantly tease me about how skinny I was. So no, I won’t be signing up for your club.”

  Dev reached down and took hold of her arm in a tight grip, his eyes boring into hers. “Let’s just get this straight, Jones, once and for all. I am not your brother. I’ve never wanted to be, or ever felt like, your brother.” His gaze remained fixed on hers. “Nor have I ever said I wasn’t attracted to you.” He turned on his heel and took the stairs two at a time, without a backwards glance.

  She heard his bedroom door slam and let out the breath she’d been holding since he grabbed her arm. Boy! Well, what was that all about? She rested her hand against the sudden rapid beat of her heart then sat down abruptly on the kitchen chair and stared out of the window at nothing in particular. She remained there for some time before slowly making her own way upstairs.

  Chapter 5

  Coward! Frankie looked at the note propped up against the coffee pot:

  Gone for a few days – see you later in the week, maybe. D

  She threw the paper into the recycling and did her best to analyse why she was relieved he was gone. When she’d woken at dawn, her mind was already playing tricks on her. Did she imagine last night’s closing comments? Was Dev attracted to her? And if so, when had that happened? Or was he just being a pain in the ass and teasing her, as usual? She’d always felt comfortable with him, was always able to talk to him about anything, and yet now, for the first time, she didn’t actually want to face him.

  She felt . . . awkward.

  Confused.

  And now he’d added to all that by skiving off somewhere thereby neatly avoiding a confrontation. And putting off the inevitable. Maybe he was right, she thought as she began fixing her cereal, and by the time he returned, last night’s very odd conversation would be forgotten. Frankie settled herself down for breakfast and managed to convince herself that Dev being gone was a very good idea indeed.

  The following days fell into a pattern for Frankie. She began getting up early to enjoy the freshness of the mornings outside with a short run followed by her first cup of coffee. She walked into town each day, usually with a baseball cap pulled snugly down on her head and large sunglasses in an attempt to disguise her famous face as much as possible. Although the locals knew her and always left her alone, some tourists had been staring rather pointedly at her and she was doing her best to avoid busy places. She kept telling herself that the stares were normal “Oh! look, there’s that celebrity” stares and not the nasty “I’m a stalker out to get you” kind. She read the papers and continued to weed the garden within an inch of its life. She aired all the linen in the closets and hope chests. She vacuumed the carpets and rugs and polished the wooden surfaces. The music on the stereo played loudly and throughout most days, ranging from classic opera to classic rock.

  A couple of days after Dev’s disappearing act, she was listening to Garth Brooks and was swamped with thoughts of Stephen. She took herself and her crying heart to bed and gave herself permission to stay there for the rest of the day. Keeping herself busy, though, was, in a very odd way, supremely relaxing. Frankie equated housework and home chores with relaxing, as the only time she got to do her own was between jobs. The rest of the time she was either away on location or had staff to take care of the household.

  By Thursday she felt better than she had in months. Tired and often grubby, she made full use of the gorgeous old bathtub, lit by candlelight, as she reread some favourite books from the old days.

  The laptop remained shut away in the den.

  Jo phoned on Thursday evening and said she and Patrick would be down for the weekend, since it was midsummer’s eve and a tradition to spend it at the lodge, possibly with Caro and Toby. Frankie was delighted and headed into town first thing on Friday to stock up on supplies, determined to give her favourite people a really nice treat. She bought champagne and wine from an exclusive little shop where the owner really knew her stuff. She spared no expense on the steaks and fish that would feed the gang for the few days they’d be visiting. Whether they’d stay longer remained to be seen.

  Back at the lodge, she put away the groceries and began making up beds for the family. Her arms stuffed into a king-size duvet cover, she nearly fell over at a sudden noise.

  “A new fashion statement, perhaps?” Dev enquired, a hint of a smile present in his voice.

  “Dev, you startled me!” Frankie gathered the metres of fabric about her, her cheeks flushed, although whether from the exertion or the surprise was debatable.

  “Sorry. I got a call from Caro saying she, Toby and the parents are on the way and I thought you might need help.”

  “What do you mean, help? I can manage very well, thanks!” she said indignantly. “Do you think I can’t manage a bit of cleaning and cooking?”

  “Bloody hell, woman. I’m trying to lend a hand, not get your back up! Take it easy, would you?”

  Dev grabbed the other end of the duvet and helped her to finish the job with deliberate precision. Frankie accepted, but not very graciously. Together, though with few words, they finished the other beds and got out fresh towels for the bathroom. Downstairs, Dev marinated the steaks while Frankie laid a really nice table outside. She fetched candles and set the chiminea to be lit later.

  About twenty minutes before the Fitzgerald party was due, Frankie ran upstairs to change out of her grubby gear and grab a quick shower. Refreshed, she perused her wardrobe choices. She’d left her more formal clothes at the Dalkey house so was fairly limited in her options.

  Being a normal female, she changed her outfit three times before eventually deciding on a sage-green linen shift to just above the ankle with a split to mid-thigh on one side. Sleeveless, with a deep scoop neck, it offered the perfect setting for a beautiful twisted rope of shell-pink pearls and in order to showcase the matching drop earrings, she twisted her hair up with a clip. Adding sage-green espadrilles, Frankie thought, made a nice balance between making an effort to dress up a little and staying casual.

  Running downstairs, she caught sight of Dev as he carried a bottle of sherry and whiskey fro
m the study towards the kitchen. He’d taken a quick shower and his damp hair curled artlessly about his head. He wore clean jeans and a well-worn pale blue shirt still hanging open with the sleeves rolled up. His feet were bare, a habit he favoured, and Frankie had already established that his toes were actually bearable to look at.

  “Hey, would you like a hand getting the glasses?” Frankie enquired as she rounded the landing.

  Dev looked up and stopped in his tracks.

  She really had no idea how stunning she looked in her simple dress and her hair up with a few stray wisps softly framing her face. Dev swallowed and wished to God he’d taken acting classes somewhere in his life.

  “Nah, I’ve got it, thanks.” He waited till she joined him at the foot of the stairs. “Mum likes her drop of sherry when she arrives and I’ve the glasses set up outside. Dad will have a whiskey and Caro probably some wine. I guess I’m barman for now. Come on out and relax for a few minutes, and I’ll pour you a G & T complete with ice and lemon.”

  “That’s my idea of service, kind sir!” Frankie smiled as she turned towards him. “Hey, relax,” she admonished when he jerked as she took the two sides of his shirt and began buttoning them together.

  As she briskly moved up his chest, her fingers grazing his skin, Dev held his breath, her perfume invading his senses, her touch, fleeting though it was, making his heart race.

  “I’m almost done here.” She left the top two open and, resting her hand against his chest, her head cocked to one side.

  The smile she had at the ready left her face, as she must have realised Dev was standing with jaw clenched and eyes shut. Neither moved. Dev slowly opened his eyes and, without realising, leant towards her, staring intently into the grey depths before him. Immobile, Frankie’s eyes fluttered down as Dev’s gaze moved to her lips, now slightly parted, and he knew, with certainty, that he was going to kiss her. Kiss her? She’d better move. She’d better say something, stop him. She should . . .